Deal
by varietyofwords
Summary: AU. Post 5x10. Chuck and Blair. "Anything you want; everything you want. I come with it, of course. It's a package deal."
1. Part One

**Author's Note:** The problem with starting a series in the middle of its final season is the intense compounding of feelings. I'm still working out the fallout for previous seasons as this one plays out so forgive me for continuing to go back in time. This one belongs to the lovely failbox who listens to me talk about a show she does not watch during nearly every one of our lunch dates and texts me pick-up lines from terrible romance novels to make me laugh. Her most recent one from Judith McNaught's _Paradise_, which I slightly modified, inspired this entire fic.

* * *

The bitterly cold air feels refreshing against his skin. Anyone else would have cursed themselves for not grabbing their coat before slipping away from the party downstairs, but the stinging sensation of the wind hitting him in the face is just the salve he needs for the fire raging in his body.

He never expected to see her here, never expected to see her again quite frankly. He thought he had been in the clear when the hours ticked on by and there was no sign of her. But one of the downfalls of living without Gossip Girl is that he never has semi-reliable information about her life. He should have known she would appear ready to rule over the masses and fashionably late as always.

The last bit of information he had managed to extract from her best friend was that she had fled to Monaco with her fiancé following the accident. He didn't know why, didn't understand how she could just renege on what she had promised him in the town car. All he knows is that she isn't the first person in his life to make false promises.

He takes a deep breath, relishes in the pain of the icy air filling his lungs. But the exhale is caught as he notices a woman standing near the edge of the building. He knows that outline anywhere; he can close his eyes and picture it perfectly. The soft flare of her hips. The gentle slope of her neck.

For a moment he pauses, unsure of what to do or say. He contemplates returning back downstairs to the party, grimaces at the irony that his escape from her leads him right to her. But the alcohol he consumed tonight coupled with the pain and agony and fire he feels just at the sight of her makes him bold, loosens his tongue and his inhibitions.

"Hello, lover."

He watches her shivering stop immediately at the sound of his voice. He wants to grab her, yell at her for forgetting to grab her coat before coming up here because she is far too tiny and thin to be standing out here without some kind of protection from the air. He wants to grab her, yell at her for forgetting to grab her best friend before coming up here because she is far too desirable and delectable to be standing out here without some kind of protection from him.

"Chuck."

The way her voice breaks – it is a siren's call. And although she hasn't even looked at him, hasn't thrown one coy glance at him over her shoulder, he finds himself standing directly behind her. Her body is mere inches away from his, and he inwardly curses her for not wearing something with a fuller skirt because at least then he would have been forced to stand further away from her.

"What do you think you're doing here?"

The often asked question is expected, and he has to chuckle at her gall for asking this of him considering their location. She's standing on top of his empire, and he wants to make some biting comment about how she has no claim to this space and cannot ask this of him.

But that would be a lie.

Instead, he inhales the scent that has haunted him since he was sixteen as he gingerly places his fingers at the nape of her neck. He half expects her to flinch; he half expects her to swat his hand away. But she just stands there – neither rigid nor melted – as he strokes his fingers along her exposed neck and leaves goosebumps in his wake.

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you leave me, Blair?"

The question is nothing more than a choked whisper between them. She shivers – whether from the cold air, his ministrations, or his words he is unsure.

"I just wanted to be there for you after the baby."

"Don't," she replies harshly.

He stops his ministrations immediately, starts to extract his hand from her lovely neck when her own captures and holds it in place. He's tethered to her, stuck in a torturous limbo that he will never be able to escape from.

"I wanted you," he replies.

He slips his other hand around her waist, splays his hand across her hip and pulls her into his embrace. The scene is so familiar; his hand against her body and the other tracing her neck and collarbone. Except this time she's holding him in place, and he desires more than just one night between her legs. He wants it all, wants to offer her the world he promised her in the back of that town car.

"I want you," he clarifies.

He can feel her body shudder against his own, and this time he knows that her movements are from more than just the cold air nipping at their exposed skin.

"I'm damaged," she confesses.

The words enrage him, the fire in his belly further fueled by the desire to hurt whoever planted this terrible thought in her head.

"Don't," he hisses in her ear, but she's too far gone.

"God's punishing me for the wicked things I've done."

He jerks her around so that she is facing him, and holds her tight so she cannot avoid his leering gaze.

"God would never punish someone as perfect and pure…" He trails off as he reaches up and cups her face. He's an atheist but, even if he wasn't, there is no way there is a deity as vindictive as the one she has imagined. "You were the lightest thing in my life. You pulled me from the darkness. There is no way God – it was an _accident_."

"He took my baby," she replies in a shaky voice. The tears are falling freely now. "He tried to take you, too."

"I'm here. I'm right here."

"Because I made a deal with Him," she informs him. "He would spare your life if –"

"What life?" He snaps back. "This is not a life. My heart beats, but I still feel like I've died."

She shuts her eyes at his words, trying to do what she always does and retreat to the movie version of her life where the ugly parts are so easily removed. He has half a mind to kiss her awake; she half expects him to kiss her in awareness. But the brush of his cheek against her own and tenor of his voice in her ear is enough to cause her eyes to fly back open.

"You want a deal? I'll make you a deal," he whispers harshly. "Go to bed with me tonight, and I'll give you the world."

She shifts her body away from him, disgust written across her face. She inwardly berates herself for believing that he could truly change when underneath this therapy-attending exterior is the same smarmy womanizer who propositioned her with similar words in high school. But this time he won't give up so easily; he won't allow her to hear what she wants to hear. He follows her movements, dips his head so he can still whisper in her ear.

"Move in with me, and I'll give you paradise on a gold platter," he continues. "Marry me, and I'll spend the rest of my life creating heaven on earth for you."

The words are caught in her throat, and her heart beats widely in her chest. Her engagement ring feels heavy on her finger, heavy on her heart – a constant reminder of the promise she made to another man and to God. She feels weak at the implications of his words, at the thought of the ring she returned in Paris currently stored in the safe in a room just below her feet.

"Chuck," she whispers.

The name is half an invitation yet half a rejection. And she is unsure of how she wants him to take it until his lips connect with her own. The searing kiss electrifies her body, engulfing her in a fever that wards off more than just the chill for the night air.

"Anything you want; everything you want," he mumbles against her lips when they break apart. "I come with it, of course. It's a package deal."


	2. Part Two

**Author's Note:** Because finals are stupid, "Limitations" is making me morose, and the proposal scene gave me all of the feels! (No worries. No spoilers here.) And because even though I didn't say it, the last part didn't end the way most you thought.

* * *

The ping of the elevator as the doors slide open at the top floor of the Empire is a mild annoyance. His text to Nate had explicitly stated the man needed to find other accommodations for the evening, and he is annoyed that he shall have to deal with his friend's overbearing concern. All he wanted, all he needed was the apartment to himself tonight. It is much easier to lie in bed, drown himself in scotch, bury his face in Monkey's fur, and not acknowledge his tears when he is home alone than it is to do so when Nathaniel is trying to be his therapist, trying to get him to talk about his feelings. It is much easier to pretend to be Chuck Bass when he is alone.

Because nobody loves Chuck Bass – nobody – and surrounding himself with people only perpetrates the myth that somebody cares, somebody loves. And even if they did, it wouldn't matter now because the one person who promised she did changed her mind.

The sound of high heels against the hardwood causes his hand to still midair, mid-pour of his next round of scotch. To the untrained ear, high heels against hardwood could mean any number of women – Serena, Lily, Eva, a call girl.

Except he is intimately familiar with these footsteps, hears them in his dreams – or, maybe they are better labeled as nightmares for the all the sleep he hasn't been getting – where he imagines her showing up and saying that she's sorry, that she didn't lie to him in the back of that town car.

His heart thuds in his chest, which constricts at the sound, and it is only when the scotch spills over the rim of his glass, puddles on the bar, and cascades over the edge towards the floor and onto his shoes that he feels any sort of pull into action. The near empty decanter is placed on the shelf with a clatter, and he finds himself wishing that he hadn't wasted all that alcohol.

Not because of the cost, but because of how much he really needs some liquid courage to face her, to face her rejection once again. He had laid everything out to her on the roof, promised her everything he had and more if she would just choose him. And, yet, she had slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, reminding him that his time with her is up.

The dagger in his heart twists as she says his name. Always so breathy, always so sharp and controlled. It's a contradiction, a Rubik's Cube he can never solve.

She repeats his name, begs him to look at her with every syllable. But the idea of seeing that gaudy, canary yellow ring still on her finger is unpalatable, and he drowns the overfilled glass in front of him with one long chug.

She waits for him to finish, watches him with wide eyes. He can see her in the mirror; even in his own apartment he cannot escape her. Just like he can't escape her on the roof of the Empire, at his club, in his limo, or on any of the street corners in the city where a newsstand exists. Her picture is plastered across the cover of every magazine, newspaper, and rag; her image is seared into his brain.

God, if they cut his chest open right now, even the biggest quack of a surgeon would find 'Property of Blair Waldorf' tattooed across his left ventricle.

Of course, that assumes he has a heart. He's pretty sure all he has are bits and pieces of something black and dead because – his heart? His heart has been tattered and torn and ripped to shreds by her perfectly manicured claws.

"I want a single-family brownstone near the Park," she says, beginning her monologue instead of begging him to look at her once more. "And I want an apartment in Paris for visits with Daddy and Roman, Mother and Cyrus over the holidays."

She desperately hopes his catches the meaning behind her message. Daddy lives in an old-fashioned dream world when it comes to his precious Blair-Bear, and she has lived without Eleanor for far too long to ever go back to the doors open with male visitors rule.

"I want –"

"Blair," he replies, interrupting her soliloquy. The way he says her name, the way his tongue pulls on the syllables – god, she hates the way that she loves the way he says her name. He has no idea why she is here, can only wonder if she is here to toy with him once more. "What are you talking about?"

"You said anything and everything," she reminds him, watches the way his eyes flare in surprise in the mirror. "I'm making my demands."

He turns, stalks towards her, and both their hearts thud in their ears.

"Your demands?" He asks from behind the red sofa. He stops there, allowing the sofa to serve as a buffer least he has misunderstood her. If he touches her and she slips out of his grasp again, he will die tonight.

Death by alcohol. Death by jumping. Death by Blair.

"Yes," she replies smoothly. It's a lie, a façade because inside she is trembling. "I want a brownstone on the Upper East Side and an apartment on the Right Bank."

"Done," he replies quickly. She had expected him to fight her on this – Lord knows how much he loves living at the Empire – and she raises an eyebrow in surprise. "I'll call my realtor in the morning. If what you want isn't for sale, I'll make it for sale."

"I want macaroons from France, stockings from Germany, and fresh cut peonies with every apology."

"Of course," he agrees because, after all, the stockings are more for his benefit than hers, and the face she makes when she bites into a Pierre Hermé macaroon? It does more for him than she knows.

"I want to max out your credit card just to say I've done it," she says as he moves from around the couch towards her. He offers her a twisted smile because, honestly, he's not even sure that's possible. But he is willing to let her try.

Always willing to let her try.

She stumbles over the words on the tip of her tongue because the next couple of demands are bigger, harder to imagine him agreeing to. He had said anything and everything; he had offered her a home for the night, for the rest of her life. But timing has never been their strong suit, and maybe it is just too late.

"I want you to get your appetite elsewhere, if you must, but I want you to always eat at home," she replies with shaky breath. Honestly, she doesn't want him looking at any other women; the idea makes her simmer with jealousy and fury. "Even if we fight, even if…"

This particular demand is not necessary because if he has her at home – ready and willing and waiting – then he will never need to develop his – um – appetite anywhere else. He will never think of another woman so long as he always has a place between her thighs and in her heart.

"And I want to be the only girl who knows that Chuck Bass is a romantic."

His hope deflates at that one. After all, he had started a charity for another woman, tried to be a better man for another woman, and he isn't sure ho–

"She didn't know you," she interrupts forcefully. "Henry, Charles, whoever you were, she didn't know the real you. Not like I do."

No, nobody knows me like you, he wants to say, but she has already moved on to the next article in this agreement.

"I want you to take me to Tuscany."

"We'll leave tomorrow," he replies without hesitation. "The jet can be ready just as soon as Dorota packs your things. I'll call the realtor from the plane."

There is an assurance in his words that she will not be stranded at the helipad this time, and he wonders if maybe he should say something more explicit aloud. At the very least, he wants to kiss away the tears that are held in the corner of her eyes; wants to replace memories of a terrible mistake with ones that will cause her grin rather than sob.

"I want the ring. I want my ring," she says before he can add anything else. "But I want your proposal to be a moment worthy of Chuck and Blair, not ripped from an Audrey movie."

_Or shoved in my hand._

It's the unspoken caveat between them, but the words are loud and clear. Never again, he promises as his face inches dangerously closer to hers.

"I want to get married in the Church so I can know that God is no longer punishing me," she trails off uncomfortably, knows his feelings about religion and what she confessed to him early this evening. "And I want you to call me your wife like it is the sweetest word in the world."

"Always."

Their noses are almost touching now; their lips inches apart. And neither of them is quite sure how they got this close. Wasn't he on the other side of the couch just moments ago?

"Anything else?"

"Yes," she replies softly. Her voice wavers in hesitation, and she has to force herself to say the words. This could be it; this could be the deal breaker because despite his earlier words, this isn't exactly compatible with the Chuck Bass lifestyle. "I want a baby."

"Your baby," she elaborates when he does not respond.

His jaw locks; his gaze bears into her eyes. The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing; the only movement the unchecked trembling of her bottom lip.

"No."

"No?" She repeats, stumbling backwards away from him in surprise. She had tried not to get her hopes up, but he had said those words, made those lovely promises to her about a baby that wasn't even his.

"I want three," he replies, making his own request. He previously said that his only demand would be that he comes with this deal, but he can't allow her to make such a decision without even the tiniest input from him.

"Three?" She cries out incredulously. All the worst parts of pregnancy – the only parts she had really experienced – spring to mind. Nausea, (increased) bitchiness, weight gain, heartburn? Three times over? That sounds like a –

"Three," he repeats. "I don't want our child to grow up lonely like we did. I want him or her to have siblings to play with, to torment, to love like..."

Like Serena and Eric. The example is one they have both clung to, one they had been jealous of at one point or another in their own lives.

"And one of them has to be a girl," he amends. "You can name her Audrey or Holly or Serena for all I care, but she has to look like you, wear headbands like you."

She stands there, gaps at him in a very unladylike, a very un-Blair Waldorf-like way as her brain mulls over his insertion to this deal.

"Okay," she concedes. "But I get to dictate the spacing, and one of them has to be a boy."

"With bowties," he suggests with a knowing grin.

"Hmm," she replies, pretending to mull over the suggestion. "Maybe he'll prefer to have a signature scarf instead."

His eyes widen at her response. He had shed his scarf when he had shed high school, when he had lost his father. But that does not mean the scarf no longer holds a special place in his life. It had come quite in handy during some of Blair's more inventive roleplaying games.

"Do we have a deal?" She asks, offering out her hand for them to shake on it. He wants to laugh at the formality because that is not at all how he plans on sealing this particular deal. Yet he places his hand in hers, watches her jolt at the current passing through their touching skin.

"One more thing," he remarks as he tugs her closer towards him. His voice dips lower – this is, after all, for her ears only – as he whispers into her ear.

He can hear her sharp intake of breath, can see the way her head lolls as her eyes roll into the back of her head at his final demand, and relishes in the way her response comes out as a moan.

"Deal."

And then he is on her and she is on him. They are kissing, pawing, fight for more – _always more_ – as they stumble towards the elevator and he fumbles for his phone in order to tell Arthur to pull the limo around front right now.

The only way to move forward is go full circle – back to the limo, back to the game, back to their deals.


	3. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** So many of you asked for this, and I had nothing until yesterday. The tone is slightly different than the last two parts, but I hope it lives up to your expectations.

* * *

Manhattan is his home. Thailand is his escape. The Hamptons are his playground. Paris is his source of light. But this – this place brings a certain amount of warmth to his life. The landscape is saturated in green and yellow, a stark contrast to the metal and concrete of the place he just left.

The driver carries his luggage into the house and hands it off to the maid who opens the front door when she hears the car pull up the driveway. She anticipates his needs and wants before he can even ask the question, sends him off in the direction of the backyard with a discrete nod of the head. He steps over the toys scattered throughout the house, rights the overturned wooden rocking horse before stepping through the open French doors onto the patio.

His eyes sweep over the rolling landscape to the pool and swing set before settling on the lawn chair arranged off the patio on the grass to offer maximum views of the landscape. The rustling breeze grabs the pages of the magazine draped over her lap – _Vogue_, he guesses based on the shape and size – and even from here he can see the frustration on her face at the interference. He steps towards her, feels the call of her deep within his soul. His actions, his movements are changed, however, by the shrill and excited cry of his son.

"Daddy!"

There is the pounding of tiny feet on the grass, the pattering of little feet on the travertine of the patio, and then tiny arms are held up to him. He swings the little boy up and holds him tightly in his arms so that tiny hands and tiny lips are placed against his cheek. Kisses and hugs are exchanged amongst cries of excitement as more hands are thrown about his legs.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

He teeters at the additional impact, places the six-year-old in his arms back on the ground to kiss and hug the little boys flung about his leg. He greets them each in turn, takes an extra moment to hold his eldest close and hear gravely delivered words whispered against his ear.

"Mommy's mad," Henry tells him. "You were supposed to come with us."

The disappointment – however slight and nearly masked in excitement – in the voice of his eldest floods through him, and he has to swallow back the disappointment he has in himself. He hugs Henry tighter, whispers an apology in his son's ear. He hates letting down his children, shushes Henry when the eight-year-old starts to say it is okay. Because it is not, and Chuck does not want Henry to get into the habit of making excuses or brushing off his feelings that marked Chuck's own childhood.

He takes stock of the children's shining eyes and bare feet, sends them off to put on their shoes with the promise of a trip into town for gelato. Eight years ago, he would have been surprised to see any child of his without shoes, but then he had seen the wonderment of a little boy standing in grass and sand for the first time. His children play and laugh and make-believe barefoot across the landscape, and he is more than okay with that.

He watches them enter the house, watches Alexander race ahead as Henry holds Edward's hand. He listens to their echoing shouts as they inform Maria about the trip to get gelato with Daddy, as they clamber up the stairs towards them their bedrooms to find their shoes.

And then his eyes sweep back across the landscape, settle back on the occupant of the lawn chair closest to him. His eyes catch hers; watch as they contract into a withering glare. She reclines back in her chair, returns her attention back to magazine.

Mad, indeed.

He steps across the patio, crosses the backyard until he is standing under the Tuscan sun next to her chair. She refuses to acknowledge his presence as she stares intently at the fashion spread in front of her.

"Hello, wife," he greets.

She huffs at the way he calls her the sweetest thing in the English language. And then because he cannot wait any longer, he bends down and captures her lips with his own. She hardens against him, melts when his tongue teases hers and his fingers stroke the nape of her neck.

"I've missed you," he breathes against her lips. "It's been three days."

The reminder of his tardiness causes her to stiffen against him. She turns her face when he leans in for another kiss and causes his lips to fall against her brunette curls. He inhales her scent, inhales the lifeblood of his existence.

"Blair," he beseeches with fingers stroking the soft skin on the nape of her neck.

Her skin pebbles under his fingers. Even now he can still affect her so. The apology hangs from his lips, but an indignant wail interrupts him. He groans at the intrusion because if it is not one child, it is the other. He pulls his fingers away from her skin as he shifts his gaze to the moss basket set on the grass beside her.

He walks around her chair, peers into the cloth-lined basket to see the scrunched up, indignant face of his youngest. He reaches in and gingerly scoops up the baby.

"Hello, Princess," he greets softly. He places a kiss against her downy soft hair and hums his question in her tiny ear. "Did you think I forgot about you?"

"She wouldn't be the first girl you've stranded here," his wife jabs. He winces at her comment, at the way she so easily cuts him to pieces.

"Blair –"

"I hope you remembered your swimsuit," she says as she flips to the next page without looking at him. "You promised the boys, and Edward has been begging to go."

"You could have taken him," he reminds her. It is a poor rebuttal; one she rejects with a huff and a cutting glare. She chooses not to throw his broken promise back in his face, settles for the reason why he made it in the first place.

"You know I don't wear bathing suits anymore," she replies. "Your children ruined my figure."

"False," he snaps as he sinks down to the empty lawn chair beside her. He is tired of this argument, tired of this excuse. "You're beautiful."

"I've had four children," she reminds him sharply. She holds her magazine away from her stomach, appraises her body with a quick glance. "My hips alone require another dress size."

He shifts the baby in his arms, reaches out to slide his fingers across her hip bone. She swats away his hand, glares at him for having the gall to touch her.

"All the better to hold onto you when I pound into y—"

"Chuck!"

He grins at her wickedly, holds the baby in front of him so she won't smack him for his insubordination. The baby grins at her mother, kicks her legs wildly, and reaches up to pull at the cloth headband on top of her head.

"Daddy!" Alexander bellows from the patio. "Let's go!"

"Leaving already?"

His wife can be a cold and calculating bitch, and he knows the comment is supposed to sting as much as it does. He explains that he promised the boys gelato and tempts her with the offer of a family outing. She shakes her head no and rebuffs his efforts to pass of the baby to her – not because she does not want to go but because she really needs a break.

"I've been doing the single parent thing for three days," she reminds him as lifts the water glass off the table beside her to her lips. She takes a sip of her water through a straw, teases him with the swipe of her tongue across her lips. "You can wrangle your children on your own for two hours."

* * *

"My credit card was declined."

His words are firm as he steps into their bedroom. She is sitting up in their bed having long ago given up on the idea of taking a nap. She seems unaffected and unsurprised at his announcement as she scrawls her comments on the latest drawings for Waldorf Designs.

"Was it now?" She questions in a tone that says she knows more than she is willing to acknowledge. She sets the drawings aside on the nightstand and pointedly ignores him as she slides out of bed and sashays past him. "Did you try a different one?"

"They were all declined," he tells her sharply. He reaches out, snags her waist, and pulls her close against him. "I had to borrow money from Henry."

In his haste to join his family, he had forgotten to exchange his American dollars into Euros and erroneously assumed his multiple credit cards would cover him until he had the opportunity to visit a bank.

"Hmm, having to borrow money from an eight-year-old," she snickers. "Must have been embarrassing for the great Chuck Bass."

"And what did you have to buy this time?"

The first time she managed to max out his credit card was during her pregnancy with Henry when at nearly full term she finally agreed to purchase clothes, furniture, and toys for their expectant bundle. It had been a whirlwind shopping trip, and she had given him a satisfied grin when they reached their final store only for his credit card to be declined.

The second time she accomplished this previously impossible feat was during her first shopping trip with Serena post-pregnancy four months ago. Shopping for little boys is fun, but there are so many more items a little girl has to have in her closet – headbands, tights, shoes, coats, and dresses. This time, however, is clearly payback, and he cannot help but be impressed at how quickly she managed to max out multiple credit cards in just three days.

"And what did you have to buy this time?"

"The boys needed new school clothes," she replies sweetly.

"They wear a uniform, Blair," he reminds her. "And Edward's not even in school yet."

"You know how important accessories are, Bass," she retorts as she tries to shake off his grasp. His grip tightens. He spins her around until her back is flush against his front and directs her attention to the wrapped and unwrapped boxes piled on her dressing table.

The peonies – fresh cut and flown in just for her – are arranged in a crystal vase on her dressing table. The box of Pierre Hermé macaroons from Paris are opened; a pink one already missing from the rainbow-colored assortment. A blue box sits unopened, but they both know the box contains her favorite stockings from Germany because these three items are standard issue with every apology.

His fingers reach up, sweep across her jawline so that she has no choice but the look at their joined reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. He slides his fingers along the slope of her neck, follows the line of the necklace he designed specifically for her until he reaches the three charms hung just above her breasts.

"The townhouse near Central Park," he says as he raises the first miniaturized key. He sets it back down, lets it fall to her neck as he fingers the second – a brass contraption with elaborate curls at the top. "The penthouse in Paris."

He fingers the first two keys in the line – their home and their home away from home – in a strong reminder of the places she owns. He pauses at the final miniaturized key on the chain, holds it up for her to see and waits for her to say it.

"What's this one the key to, Blair?"

She shifts from foot to foot in an attempt to ignore him, shifts as his fingers dig into her hipbone and snap her attention back to him. Her response is a mumbled and muffled, and he teases her earlobe with a nibble of her teeth until she says it louder.

"Your heart."

There is a waver in her voice at the words, a hitch as he exhales a breath over the sensitive skin of her neck. She claims the necklace itself is gaudy, and thus rarely wears this particular gift outside the house. They both know her claim is a lie; they both know nothing designed by Chuck Bass could ever be described as garish. Yet he lets her get away with the claim because he knows the real reason. It is a physical manifestation that Chuck Bass is a romantic, and that is a secret she likes to keep to herself.

"You're still in trouble," she breathes out at him.

He nods his head, acquiesces to her point as he pushes her towards the fourth present – the one that is always a surprise – and instructs her to put it on. She grabs the present off the table, throws a glance at him over her shoulder, and then stalks into the bathroom with the explicit intention of denying him a show.

* * *

"Don't be a baby, Eddie!"

"Don't call me that!" Edward snaps at his eldest brother as Alexander runs past him and cannonballs into the pool. The water splashes back onto the patio, splashes back onto Edward as the little boy tries to find the courage to jump in.

"Chicken!" Alexander shouts with a cluck and a flap of his arms.

"Alex, Henry," Chuck warns gravely as he steps into the water and swims over towards where Edward is standing. Both boys know better than to tease their four-year-old brother. "You can do it, Edward!"

Edward hesitates, pulls his lip between his teeth as he contemplates the confidence his father has in him. He reaches up, runs a hand through his brown locks before dropping his hands back to his side with fists clinched in determination.

"You're gonna catch me, right, Daddy?"

"I promise," Chuck swears. "I'll always catch you, Ed."

Edward smiles at the use of his preferred nickname, takes a deep breath, and then breaks out into a run. He flies through the air, lands right in his father's arms just as Chuck promised, and smiles when the water splashes into both their faces.

"Alright, hooligans," Blair yells over the commotion. "Baby in the water."

Chuck releases Edward out of his arms, watches the little boy doggie paddle over to his mother. He asks excitedly if his mother saw his jump, grins widely when Blair confirms that it was the biggest splash she has ever seen. The baby in her arms shrieks in excitement as she deposited into the pool float and splashes her arms against the water as she floats away from the steps.

Her eldest brother, who had immediately paused mid-run at his mother's words, wades into the pool after his sister and swims alongside her. He keeps her from floating too far into the pool, dribbles water onto her arms, and earns himself toothless grins for his efforts at entertaining her.

Chuck lifts himself out of the pool and stalks towards his wife with a careful eye trained on his happy children. He sidles up behind her, catches her unaware as she bends down to adjust the towel draped over her chair. She gasps at the feeling over being pulled flush against his groin, but her efforts to stand up only serve to further press her body against him.

"Chuck!"

"Come swimming," he instructs as she squirms in his embrace.

"I already told you," she replies haughtily. "I don't wear bathing suits."

He can see the carefully knotted top of her bathing suit around her neck, and his fingers tug at the zipper on her cover up.

"Liar."

The dress falls to the floor, leaving her exposed in his latest gift to her that is really for his own pleasure. She decries his efforts, asks him what exactly he thinks he is doing.

"I'm getting my appetite," he suggests lewdly as his hands slide across her exposed belly and his thumbs brush against the underside of her breasts. The top of the bikini is barely keeping her contained, and he may have purposefully forgotten to taken into account the fact that she is still nursing.

"Too bad the kitchen is closed," she snaps. But she is enjoying this chase almost as much as him, and he knows the way she wiggles against him is merely a power grab.

"Oh, I know the owner," he growls in her ear. "I'm sure we can work something out."

He turns his head away, calls out to the children playing in the pool with instructions to tell Mommy to come swimming. The chorus of three happy voices beckons her to join in the fun, and she acquiesces to their demands. Her body possesses softer curves compliments of four full-term pregnancies, but she is the paradigm of perfection in his eyes. The sun glints in the eyes of his children so that they squint their eyes against the glare, and he takes the moment to reach down and discreetly adjust himself as she slips into the water.

* * *

Exhausted yet happy children tucked into their beds after hours in the pool and a quick dinner outside on the patio send him on a silent hunt through the house. He looks first in their room, finds the baby asleep in the bassinet in the corner. He looks out on the patio, slips back through the double doors and ponders where she might be when he notices a sliver of light under the door of a rarely used room.

He finds her lying on the chaise lounge in the library staring up at the portrait of the two of them he is not entirely fond of. His dislike stems not from a problem with their appearance; they could never take a bad photograph. And even now, almost ten years to the day, the image of her in her white wedding gown takes his breath away.

Still, he hates the portrait because they are kneeling at the altar of a god he does not believe in. Six weeks of religious education, one obligatory confessional that lasted hours, and a full mass at their wedding ceremony all so she could know God was not punishing her for the death of her unborn baby. That is what the portrait reminds him of – the broken woman who thought she lost one of the most important people in her life and nearly lost another.

He settles on the chaise lounge next to her, although there really isn't enough room for them both. She stares past him at the picture, but allows him to pick up her hand and play with the two rings on her finger.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he whispers as he rotates them round and round. She sighs at his apology, and he cannot help but repeat himself. "I'm so sorry."

"Tuscany, Chuck," she simply yet pointedly replies. "Tuscany."

"I know," he mummers softly into the still, silent air.

"Do you?" She questions harshly raised eyebrows whilst still refusing to meet his gaze. Her stoicism, her rigid spine collapses at the question. "It was like being seventeen again – sent ahead on a promise only to be abandoned. Except this time I had three mini-Chucks asking where Daddy is."

"I'm sorry," he repeats as he reaches up to brush a curl out of her eyes. "I thought I would be right behind you, but –"

"A busty blonde got in the way?"

"No," he quickly replies.

Normally, she trusts him wholeheartedly, and he knows that it is only the repetition of what happened to her in this place that is causing her to be so suspect. Still, her suggestion hurts, and he turns her head gently so she is looking directly at him. Her features hardened in anger soften at the look on his face. A palm is pressed against his cheek in her own silent apology.

"The deal – it's gone south. We're going to have to lay off some employees."

She leans forward, presses her lips against his in a soft kiss. He closes his eyes at the feeling, keeps them close when she pulls away yet leaves their foreheads touching.

"How many?"

"Several thousand."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. He nods weakly against her, presses his forehead into hers.

"I wouldn't abandon you," he reminds her. "I called but –"

She flushes with guilt at the reminder of the ninety-two times she pressed ignore on her BlackBerry. She apologizes again, explains that she was angry and hurt over the fact that he would do this to her again. He repeats his early statement, presses his body into hers and in turn presses her back against the chaise lounge as he feathers kisses against her jawline.

"You can make it up to me," he whispers darkly as he presses apart her legs and moves his body to the space between them.

"I'm not doing that."

"Hmm," he mummers with a tug on the high neckline of her flannel nightgown. She gasps when the fabric tears, when his lips begin their attack on her collarbone. She lifts her body off the chaise, assists in his attempt to lift her nightgown above her hips. "I guess I can let that one go."

"You better," she gasps as his fingers press into her. "You got the – _oh_ – better end of this deal."


End file.
